


Silence Feels Like Home

by itwasprongs



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Canon Compliant, Clarke-centric, Clexa, F/F, F/M, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Minor Lexa/Clarke Griffin, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itwasprongs/pseuds/itwasprongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke experiences a lot of silence when she leaves and it hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> The finale of the 100 aired on Wednesday and left me for dead. So obviously I wrote a fanfiction about it with 4.3k words. (I am trash.) It’s my first time writing fanfic for the 100 and I still haven’t nailed my characterization quite yet and given that it’s me writing it, some of this is all over the place. Sorry. 
> 
> Endless thanks to twilightstargazer who read over this for me and made it 10 times better. Thanks Nai for putting up with me<33
> 
> It’s my very rough idea of what Clarke does once she leaves. Very loosely inspired by this post on tumblr: http://arkqueens.tumblr.com/post/113439554043/but-real-talk-where-could-clarke-go-she-doesnt

At first Clarke doesn’t know where she’s going. She’s just walking, walking, walking, walking. Trying to get away from everything. It’s not until she’s avoiding small craters in the ground, the after effects of landmines, that she realises she’s going to the dropship. It almost makes sense to her that her feet would lead her here. After all, it’s where everything began and now everything has ended. Full circle.

She walks through the remnants of the gate and up the ramp into the dropship, not allowing her eyes to drift to the charred corpses of Grounders, still littering the camp. Today Clarke will not allow herself to remember the fire that burned them. Today she has to remember the faces and the bodies of the Mountain Men she killed. The slumped and scarred bodies of women, children, men, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, friends, all contorted in pain and silent in death. She has to remember so her friends can forget.

The dropship is unchanged and she climbs up the ladder to the third level, thinking only of the mattress one of the delinquents dragged up there at some point. Clarke is tired. Her feet hurt and her head is throbbing and her bones ache. Ache with the memories of what she has done and the people they have lost and the friends she has left behind and the feeling of what it’s like to kill so many people at the flip of a lever.

Falling onto the make shift mattress is easy and in a moment she is asleep, mouth parted and eyes tightly shut in the hopes that the ache in her bones will fade and she won’t dream of anything. It all hurts so much. It is all her fault.

* * *

No one comes. A day passes and Clarke doesn’t leave the third level. Two days pass and she makes it down to the ramp but doesn’t step off it. Three days pass and she drifts in and out of agitated sleep, dreams full of of burning bodies and crying children. Four days pass and it takes all her energy to leave the camp, to find something to eat. She doesn’t want too except if she dies of starvation then who will remember what happened? Who will bear the guilt?

Berries that won’t kill her aren’t too hard to find and she collects pockets full and returns to the dropship. Another day passes and it rains, filling the pots the 100 left with water. Eventually a week has passed and no one has come.

Clarke doesn’t know why she is keeping count. She doesn’t want anyone to come. It is not their fault and they do not have to face up to what they have done. But, still, she wonders, wonders why no one comes. Bellamy must have told them something. Perhaps he is keeping them away and, for a moment, looking up at the stars on the eighth day, Clarke allows herself to be grateful because he let her leave. Or maybe they just hasn’t thought to look for her here. Or maybe they’re not looking for her at all.

* * *

Her clothes belong to Lexa and she strips them off, discarding the gloves and coat and returning to the grey top and dirty trousers she had come to the ground in. There’s a jumper on the second level and she pulls it over her head and tries to ignore the smell of moonshine that’s apparently woven into it. Without the gloves she can see her hands and she stares at them for a long time.

They killed hundreds of people. Tanned, long fingers covered in scars. Knuckles red and dry. Fingernails chewed and dirty. Palms covered in the blood of the innocent. She sits in the middle of camp, surrounded by the dead, and looks at her hands. Murderer’s hands. And then she shuts her eyes tight because she is a murderer and it is _all her fault_ and she still can’t figure out if there could have been another way. What if Jasper had killed Cage? If they had waited another minute and Abby had screamed louder and Monty hadn’t figured it out so soon and Jasper had cut Cage’s throat? Would it have stopped? Clarke doesn’t know and it hurts. Like a dagger to the gut.

_What if What if What if What if What if What if What if?_

She can’t stop herself from thinking it and it consumes her, the knowledge that maybe it wasn’t necessary. That she could have saved her people without murdering anyone else’s. What would Bellamy say? She thinks about that a lot too. Sometimes it hurts a lot more than remembering all those writhing bodies.

It’s cold at night but Clarke lets herself shiver, not taking the blankets on the second level or pulling the jumper tighter around her. She deserves any pain. Nothing can make up for what she did. Not dying at the hand of a Reaper or being stabbed by the girl you loved or leaving everyone you loved. Not even Bellamy’s forgiveness, her words, could make up for it. This she deserved. The isolation, the pain, the blame. It was all her, hers, hers. It belongs to Clarke. Because she caused all of it.

* * *

At the end of the second week she is coming back into camp, pockets full of more berries, and she stops short when she sees the small bundle at the gate. It’s a bag, one of the ones the 100 made from materials in the drop ship. Clarke whips her head around, stance low and strong, too weak to fight yet ready to defend herself.

There’s no one there. The forest is silent and empty. Clarke is alone. Slowly she approaches the bag, eyes flickering to the trees on either side of her. It has come from Camp Jaha, she is sure of it. Which means someone knows she is here. _Bellamy_ , she thinks as she tugs open the bag and finds ration pouches, messily labelled in Monroe’s handwriting, sitting on top of a folded top, clean, and two knives, both with decorated handles. She considers leaving it, not giving in to him. But then she remembers how he put his hand on top of hers and she takes the bag inside, tearing through three ration packets before she tells herself to save them.

The jumper replaces the one that smells of moonshine and this one smells of her mum and Clarke wonders if Bellamy asked Abby for one of her jumpers or if, she thinks it’s probably this, she is just imaging her mother's scent because she wants to. It is then that she finally allows herself to cry.

Her shoulders break and her eyes bleed with tears. She clutches her skin and cries, for Wells and for her father and for the innocents in the mountain and the Grounders she now lives with and for her mother and for Bellamy and for Octavia and Monty and Jasper and Raven and all of those she has lost and betrayed and left and murdered. Clarke sits on the ramp, the bag open next to her, and cries for everyone but herself because it is her fault. She deserves no mercy.

* * *

Lexa wakes her the next day. Clarke thinks it is a dream. She had been dreaming about the commander and for a moment she thinks she is still asleep. Lexa is crouched next to her, fingers gently resting on Clarke’s shoulder, having just shaken her awake. Clarke flinches away, crawling to the other side of the dropship and staring. They’re alone. She doesn’t have to ask to know that there are no Grounders on the lower levels or around the camp. Lexa has come alone, without her guard and her war paint and her weapons.

She stands across from Clarke and neither of them says anything. Clarke wants to scream and hit her and ask her why why why why _why_ did you betray me? She already knows though. Has thought about it a million times. Understands why Lexa did it and how she could justify doing it. Clarke thinks she might have done the same. Then again, she’s still not sure on that one.

Finally, “What are you doing, Clarke?” Lexa asks, eyes concerned and face closed off.

“I don’t know.” She’s being honest because Lexa has come alone and isn’t wearing her war paint and for some reason, Clarke still trusts her. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Lexa sits and now they are opposite each other, with what feels like ten miles between them when really it is only ten feet.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Clarke answers, cold.

“Yes you do.” Silence again and Lexa stares, looking into Clarke like she is made of glass and the commander can see every thought and feeling and memory.

“Love is weakness.” Clarke says after ten minutes. She doesn’t acknowledge Lexa’s slight flinch, just stares hard at the women who betrayed her and her people to save her own.

“Only if you let it weaken you.” The words are soft and not ones Clarke has ever heard before. She doesn’t know if she believes them.

“I think love is strength.”

“Even after all you have sacrificed?” Lexa asks. Clarke thinks of Wells and her dad and Jasper holding Maya in his arms and watching her mother being drilled into and walking away from Bellamy and Lexa… Clarke thinks of Lexa saying “may we meet again”.

“Yes.” Now she meets Lexa’s eyes, unflinchingly. Lexa looks away.

“If love is strength, why have you walked away from it?” Lexa looks back to her and they stare, reaching in to each other’s minds and trying to search for something, anything to give them a clue about what the other is thinking.

“The blame isn’t theirs.”

“Neither is it wholly yours.”

“No one else can carry it.” Clarke refuses to let herself sound nervous because she doesn’t know what she has to feel nervous about.

“They are willing.”

“How do you know?” She can’t know. Can’t know what Bellamy said which Clarke can’t get out of her head.

“Because I am willing and I am not one of your people, Clarke.” Lexa’s voice is steady and Clarke envies it.

“Do you not already have enough guilt on your shoulders?”

“I feel no guilt for what I did. Only sadness that you do not understand.” Clarke stands suddenly, pushing herself up and staring down at Lexa, who makes no move.

“I get why you did it. How you can justify it. I get it, I do.” Clarke starts, trying to collect her thoughts. “I just thought we were in it together.” _Together._ Bellamy had been in it together.

“My people had to come first.” Now Lexa stands too, eyes tense and face anxious. “We would all be dead if I hadn’t agreed to the deal.”

“No.” She says it firmly because this Clarke believes. “You don’t know what would’ve happened. You’ll never know. If we would’ve lived or died or lost everything. You can’t know.”

“You saved your people. Like a strong leader would. You have sacrificed so much and now you have left them. You are losing everything just when you got them back.” She’s changing the subject and Clarke isn’t going to let her, shouldn’t let Lexa dictate the conversation.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“I disagree.” Lexa steps forwards and Clarke realises they are only four steps apart. At one point they moved closer she doesn’t know. “I care about you, Clarke, of the Sky People-”

Clarke kisses her, moving forwards and pressing her dry lips to Lexa’s. The commander responds almost immediately, soft and slowly, hands holding Clarke’s hips. “It’s not enough.” It ends, their foreheads resting against each other’s and Clarke sighs. “It’s not enough to care because you think love is weakness and you betrayed me for your people who will always come first and I understand because I killed hundreds of innocents to save mine and, Lexa, I’m not coming with you.” Clarke had known from the beginning why Lexa was there. To ask for forgiveness and ask Clarke to come join the Grounders. She can’t. Doesn’t want to. Has never wanted to.

“I understand.” Lexa brushes her lips against Clarke’s for a final time, a quivering softness present in the tender kiss. There’s a hesitancy on her face, as if maybe she’s not doing the right thing, but at the same time there’s a determination in her eyes that bleeds with weakness instead of strength. Clarke thinks that maybe she understands why Lexa thinks love holds no strength.  “May we meet again, Clarke.”

“May we meet again.” She whispers, still as Lexa climbs down the ladder and disappears, war paint suddenly visible on her cheekbones again.

It hurts because Lexa understands. Lexa has sacrificed lives for her people before and lives by “blood must have blood.” It hurts because if Clarke had met Lexa on the Ark, she knows she would have loved her. She can’t on the Ground. Not now. If they had gotten through it together and left the mountain together, with both their people, then Clarke knows she would have loved her.

They didn’t though. Lexa betrayed her and Clarke murdered hundreds of people. So nothing will happen because Clarke can’t love her. She hasn’t had time to love her. Lexa understands what it is like to kill and Clarke wants someone who understands, yet not in that way.

* * *

Another week passes and again a bag is left in the entryway to camp. Clarke takes it into the dropship and opens it, grateful for the water bottle and gun that appear beneath a pair of trousers. Her size. Slightly too tight around the waist and torn in places, but her size.

The bags in the gateway become regular, almost every other day, and Clarke never sees who delivers them. Bellamy, is her first guess because Bellamy has always helped her and he, of all people, would be able to guess where she’d go. A note in the eighth bag confirms it. _Abby misses you. Everyone misses you._ He doesn't ask what’s going on or if she’s coming back - just reminds her he is there, as he has always done.

Notes become a regular thing too. Not every time - Clarke tells herself not to wish they did come every time - or even on a specific schedule. Sometimes they are just there, a scrap of paper tucked away in a shoe or beneath rations or wrapped around the handle of a handgun.

_Everything is shitty._

_Lincoln is teaching everyone Trigedasleng. Raven’s practically fluent already._

_The patrols haven’t spotted any Grounder activity since we got back._

_Jasper’s not speaking to anyone. He spends all day in his tent. Monty looks like a lost dog. Jackson walked in on Raven and Wick having sex._

_Monroe keeps having nightmares._

_O and I spoke today. Properly. She said she and Lincoln are going to leave. They don’t know when, they’re not ready yet, but she says she’s not staying forever._

_“Velimus non credere et cogitare a nobis, et alios imaginamur.”_

_Wick made fireworks with Monty and the result was a lot of fire._

_It’s funny how a kingdom falls apart when there’s no one to rule it._

_O thinks you’re being selfish._

Clarke stores every note away and reads them when she’s cold and it hurts more than usual and she doesn’t want to think. She loses herself in his neat handwriting. Lets herself imagine him saying the words to her. Tries not to think of Maya in Jasper’s arms. Laughs at the imagine of Raven cursing Wick as he extinguishes fire. Doesn’t come up with ways to try and stop Monroe’s nightmares. Pretends she can’t translate Latin. Thinks of her mother listening to Lincoln speak a language she probably doesn’t want to learn. Cries at the fact Monty has lost his best friend and will never get him back. Ignores the finality in his tone when he speaks about Octavia. Remembers her words in the tunnel. Refuses to think about anything anymore.

* * *

On a day when a note doesn’t come and the bag contains only rations, Clarke walks to the Grounders camp. No one stops her from walking in, no one even glances twice at her as she strides to the commander’s tent. She is let in immediately, no hesitation or question. Lexa is there, sitting beside an empty tactic table. She doesn’t stand when Clarke walks in. Clarke wishes she had.

“Peace.” It’s a demand. She won’t leave without it.

“For you?” Lexa meets her gaze, strong and steady.

“For my people. No conditions or prices anymore. Peace.”

“What are you bargaining with?”

“This isn’t a bargain or a negotiation. This is me telling you that now there is peace. No more fighting. No more war. Peace.” The silence that follows her words is heavy with static, as if they both want to say something but aren’t willing to. Lexa is thoughtful, face stoic but still gentle around the edges, like it had been the day they first kissed.

“My people won’t agree to it.” Lexa stands.

“What do we have left to fight about, Lexa? There is _nothing_.” Clarke is ready to shout, to try and push it into the commander’s head that they _need_ peace.

“You invaded our land.”

Clarke takes a step forward, not hiding her anger. “You betrayed me.”

“I did what needed to be done to save my people.”

“And now peace is needed to save your people.” She knows why Lexa betrayed her, does not hate her for it. Does not hate her at all.

Lexa is soft and still, “They will never agree.”

Clarke has a raging fire in her stomach because Lexa is arguing for nothing. She snaps and lets herself yell slightly, as much desperation as anger fuelling her words. “You are their commander. They will follow you into death. Whatever you command, they do. I am telling you now - peace. Tell them. _Make_ them obey.” Lexa doesn’t move, staring intently at her. Clarke doesn’t break eye contact. “We need this.”

“The minute your people hurt one of mine, we will be at war.” Lexa states. Clarke feels something blossom inside of her. It almost feels like hope. “For now though, peace.” Maybe her words do sound almost like a resignation but Clarke ignores that. They are at peace. They can live. “Yu gonplei ste odon.” And that feels more like death than any wound.

“Peace, Lexa, we’ll survive.” The silence carries her back to the dropship and she watches the stars that night and wonders if that’s where people go when they die.

* * *

Two months go by and somehow she lives. She has lost weight, her hair brushes against her ribcage, her nails are worn down, the boots Bellamy left are falling apart, but, she lives. Clarke feels like she wants to go home. Except she has no home.

She knows she could leave. Actually leave this time. Walk away, to the mountains, to the sea, to the City of Light, and never come back. Clarke wants to stay. She wants to tell Bellamy this. Somehow he knows. Somehow, when she returns one day from hunting, a rabbit slung over her bag, Bellamy is there.

Sitting on the dropship’s ramp. He is staring at the floor and has not seen her and Clarke freezes, stock still in the gateway, taking him in. He’s wearing the white top he took from Mount Weather, a black jacket and dark trousers too. Muddy boots. Hair that actually looks washed, but not brushed. It’s still curly. Clarke wonders if, if he looks up, she’ll be able to see the constellations of freckles on his face.

He looks up. She can’t see them.

“Clarke.” He doesn’t stand. Waits for her to walk to him. Slowly, warily, she sits down next to him, legs aching after an hour crouched behind a shrub. Now she can see his freckles, how chapped his lips are, the brown of his eyes. “I came to get you.”

“I’m not coming back.” Silence. Silence that stretches and aches and makes old wounds raw and doesn’t feel safe anymore. Bellamy looks at his feet. Looks at her. Sighs.

“Okay.” The word is balanced. Clarke clings onto his voice. Nothing more is said. Instead they sit together, still and silent, as the sun sets and the moon burns in the sky. Until Bellamy stands and walks towards the camp’s gateway. Clarke stands and follows him. He says nothing. Clarke doesn’t answer.

* * *

The forest is silent save for their gentle footsteps and Clarke revels in it because this silence is not threatening or empty or stretching. This silence is the ground and it belongs. She waits for Bellamy to speak and he never does. Keeps walking, always a few steps ahead of her, without once looking over his shoulder. Clarke doesn’t know if that’s because he’s confident she’s following or because he thinks she isn’t. She watches the barrel of his gun, slung over his back, slap against his thigh. Let’s her mind wander as they walk, focusing on plants and leaves and the flutter of birds and butterflies around them.

Only when the treeline is in sight does she walk next to him, their shoulders brushing. Still nothing is said. Now the silence fills her mind and plagues her brain because she’s returning and she has done nothing.

Camp Jaha looms ahead of her and she doesn’t want to go back. Yet she doesn’t stop walking. She sees the gate and beyond it movement. People, some of them _hers_ , moving around and talking and laughing and working. Now she wants to move faster. Get there faster and see her Mum and Raven and Monty and Jasper and Octavia and Lincoln… wants to hug them and never let go. Never wants to let Bellamy out of her sight again.

 _Bellamy._ She can hear him next to her. His steps, the rustle of his trousers, the thud of his boots against the hard packed ground. Without thought she intertwines her fingers with his, doesn’t hesitate to do it and ignores how he turns to look at her. He doesn’t take his hand away though. Clarke is grateful because she thinks she would have died if he had.

“Blake is back!” Someone from inside the camp yells, one of the guards, and Clarke tenses. Bellamy brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

“Who’s he with?” A voice calls back and Clarke feels her heart crash in her chest. Then voices erupt, yelling, and she can see the clash of activity behind the fence.

“It’s Clarke! Ohmygod it’s Clarke!”

“Someone get Abby.”

“Where’s Dr Griffin?”

“Bell!”

“It’s Clarke she’s back what happened?”

“Does she look hurt?”

“Where’s Raven?”

Bellamy holds her hand tight as the gates swing open for them and they walk through and Clarke notices how there is no silence here. People crowd around them, voices clamouring to talk to her, but no one comes forward. Clarke thinks Bellamy is probably glaring at them. She doesn’t look though. All she can see is Abby. Standing outside the medbay tent, now a structure of wood and metal, a syringe in her hand, staring.

“Alright, princess?” Bellamy whispers in her ear, glancing down at her. Soft. No glare in his eyes when he looks at her. She looks back up at him. Nods.

“Clarke!” Suddenly she is being hugged, tightly and fiercely and her face is buried in someone’s brown hair. Someone who smells of chemicals and whose knee is pressing into Clarke’s like it’s made of metal.

“Raven.” Clarke hugs her back, not letting her hands shake. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re a fucking menace, Griffin.” Raven pulls back and grins, tears glistening. “Glad to have you back. You’re staying, obviously. I’m not letting you leave again.” She takes a step back and Clarke nods, biting her lip.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. Go say hi to-”

“Clarke.” Abby. Raven steps to the side and Clarke feels Bellamy’s warmth leave her side. Then her Mum is hugging her and it’s a different kind of warmth but Clarke loves it all the same. “I love you. My little girl, I was so worried. Come inside. Hey, hey, no need to cry, you’re home now.” Her Mum takes her inside, arm around her shoulders, and doesn’t let anyone stop them. The word “home” sounds funny to Clarke. She doesn’t like it. It’s not home. She doesn’t say anything though because she hadn’t realised she was crying and she’s so so tired and all she wants to do is hug her Mum. She falls asleep with her head in her Mum’s lap, thinking of Bellamy.

* * *

When she wakes she is not where she fell asleep, on the floor with her head in Abby’s lap. She is in a bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, her clothes beside the mattress. The pillow smells of Bellamy. Clarke looks beyond her shoes and sees him, curled up on the floor, sleeping peacefully. Outside the sun warms the side of the tent, spilling in through small holes and filling the tent with light. It’s quiet, only the sounds of morning breaking the silence.

“Bell…” She whispers and he is awake in a second, sitting up and reaching for her.

“Morning, princess.” He murmurs, voice scuffed with sleep so that it reverberates around her heart. Slowly he rises up and walks over. Clarke moves without thinking about it, letting him lie down next to her and wrap his arms around her. He’s half naked and she is only in a tank top and knickers. He is warm next to her. It seeps into her bones. Calms her. “O undressed you. I didn’t look.” Bellamy says, lips brushing against her ear. Clarke curls into his body, pressing their chests together and relaxing in the rhythm of his heart.

“Didn’t realise I was that revolting.” He pokes her side.

“Don’t be a smartass. You’ve lost weight.”

“So have you.” Clarke retorts and pokes him back. He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment.

“We’ve lost a lot of things. I’m not going to lose you again.”

“You don’t have to.” Clarke feels his smile against her skin and closes her eyes, the safety of his arms washing over her. They are silent and the silence is full of Bellamy. His breathing, soft against her neck, the jump of his heart, the murmur of his words in her ear.

And Clarke feels at home. In the silence that is Bellamy and, wherever they are, where they are together.

 

 


End file.
